


Runespoor: Year One

by aartemesiaa



Series: Runespoor: A Serpent with Three Heads [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Hermione Granger, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Gen, Good Slytherins, Hermione Just Wants Pens Goddammit, Hogwarts Inter-House Friendships, Indian Harry Potter, POV Hermione Granger, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Slytherin Ron Weasley, Work In Progress, and to know what the fuck is up with severus snape's irrational hatred of random students
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22478143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aartemesiaa/pseuds/aartemesiaa
Summary: A girl who knows that she will have no place in the world unless she carves it for herself. An abused boy, given his first taste of freedom and power. A boy overshadowed by his siblings, seeking recognition above all else. Three natural Slytherins, but not as the world would expect a Slytherin to be.Year one of a Slytherin Trio AU in which Hermione's refusal to sacrifice Muggle conveniences and total disregard for the status quo eventually drags the wizarding world, kicking and screaming, into the 1990s.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Daphne Greengrass, Hermione Granger & Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger & Neville Longbottom, Susan Bones & Hermione Granger
Series: Runespoor: A Serpent with Three Heads [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617250
Comments: 53
Kudos: 253





	1. A Wand and its Witch

Hermione Granger was really, truly thrilled to learn, at the age of eleven-and-three-quarters, that she was a witch.

It certainly helped to explain a great many odd things that had happened to her as a child. There was the time when Amelia Turner pushed her in the playground and made her skin both of her knees something awful, only to have all her scrapes and bruises disappear by the time she reached the school nurse; or that incident in year four when Eddie Scott stole her favourite blue pencil, and suddenly every pencil he picked up only produced an ugly shade of snot-green for the rest of the day.

Hence, when a tall, stern-looking woman knocked on the door of the Granger household on a chilly Saturday in the middle of July and introduced herself as Professor McGonagall from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – a school that Hermione would be allowed to attend, since she was a witch – Hermione was so excited she could barely contain herself. In her opinion, she did a remarkable job of holding her tongue until Professor McGonagall asked: “Now, do you have any questions?”

Before her mum or dad could so much as open their mouths, Hermione began asking questions at a breakneck pace. How come she was a witch even though nobody else in her family her could do magic? What subjects did Hogwarts teach? How did the wizarding world hide from muggles and why? Most importantly, when does school start?

Professor McGonagall, to her credit, did her best to answer as many of Hermione’s questions as she could, detailing the Hogwarts curriculum, the four Houses, the exam system, and her knowledge of the wizarding world in general. She indulged Hermione’s endless curiosity with a fondness Hermione had only previously experienced from her parents and her favourite primary school teacher, Mrs Collins.

When the time came for the two witches to leave to get Hermione’s school things, Hermione couldn’t help but ask how they were going to get from her sleepy little town in Cheshire all the way to London before the shops closed. It was already one in the afternoon, and it took at least 3 hours by train to get to London. In response, Professor McGonagall gave a brief but impressively detailed explanation of the basics of Apparition before warning her that much like muggle driving, Apparition required training and an age-restricted licence. Attempting it before she was of age, Professor McGonagall warned her, would almost certainly result in the gruesome side-effect known as ‘splinching’.

Side-Along Apparition, on the other hand, was perfectly safe for children, and not a minute later Hermione found herself and Professor McGonagall stood in a quiet corner of a small, dark pub – or rather, Professor McGonagall stood as Hermione crouched on the cold stone floor with her head between her knees as she willed herself not to vomit in front of her new role model. While Side-Along Apparition may be safe, it certainly didn’t resemble anything close to pleasant.

“I must say, Miss Granger, I’m rather impressed with your constitution,” Professor McGonagall remarked, half-heartedly examining a poster on the wall. “It’s quite common for people to vomit after their first Side-Along Apparition, especially children.”

Hermione almost protested that she was eleven-and-three-quarters, and therefore _not a child, thank you very much_ , before deciding that protesting would just make her seem all the more childish. She settled for a simple, “Thank you,” as her stomach settled enough for her to get to her feet. She was still a little wobbly, however, and managed to nearly topple over almost immediately.

As she fell, a warm hand reached out to grab her arm, steadying her in place. “Careful, love!” Hermione looked up to see who had saved her from a rather embarrassing fall and was met with a short, red-headed, friendly-looking woman, accompanied by four equally red-headed teenaged boys.

Hermione opened her mouth, apologies on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the red-headed woman speaking again. “Are you alright, dear? You look as though you’ve seen a Boggart!”

“I-I’m fine, thank you,” Hermione replied, still a little shaken.

“First Side-Along,” Professor McGonagall interjected, directing a wry smile downwards at the other woman. It was almost comical how much the Professor towered over the redhead.

“Ah, of course! Nasty thing, Apparition. Never had the knack for it myself, always preferred the Floo. This must be one of the new muggleborns, Professor?” the other woman asked, in that way that people ask things to which they already know the answers. She looked at Hermione as though expecting her to jump in and introduce herself.

Hermione’s brain, however, was still stuck on an unfamiliar word from a few minutes before, and all she could think to say was: “What’s a Boggart?”

The woman looked perplexed at the unexpected question, but seemed to gather herself after a few seconds of waiting and realising that she was not going to get an introduction before answering the question. “I’m sure you’ll learn soon enough, my dear, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher is supposed to be an expert on Dark creatures! My Ron is starting his first year too, I suppose you two will probably end up in the same class.” She gestured at the shortest of the four boys. He very much resembled his mother, round-faced and freckle-covered, but was lankier in build, and his eyes were sharp and blue instead of his mother’s kind brown ones. He smiled awkwardly at Hermione, clearly unused to being the centre of attention.

Two of the taller boys, clearly twins and probably Ron’s brothers judging by the resemblance, snickered at his awkwardness – and probably at Hermione, too. She determinedly ignored them both, accustomed to being the object of ridicule for stupid boys, and extended her hand to the boy in front of her.

“It’s nice to meet you, I’m Hermione Granger,” she introduced herself. Ron stared at her outstretched hand, bemused, before hesitantly reaching out his own. His hand was warm, Hermione noted, and bigger than hers despite their similar heights.

“Ron Weasley,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, drawing the attention of both Hermione and the other Weasleys. “I don’t mean to interrupt, Molly, but I’m afraid that Miss Granger and I have quite a lot of shopping to do, and if we don’t get on our way I fear we’ll be stuck at Gringotts until every other shop on the Alley closes.”

“Oh, of course, Professor!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed, shuffling the boys out of the way to allow them to pass.

Hermione trailed after Professor McGonagall as she headed towards the door at the back of the pub, waving bashfully at the family of redheads.

“Before I forget, do congratulate Charlie on his N.E.W.T. results for me,” Professor McGonagall added. “I believe Professor Kettleburn was particularly pleased with his ‘Outstanding’ in Care of Magical Creatures.”

Mrs Weasley beamed at the praise and thanked Professor McGonagall profusely.

Outside the pub – the Leaky Cauldron, according to the weathered sign above their heads – the two witches stood in front of an ordinary-looking brick wall, and Hermione wondered how this could possibly be hiding the entrance to the wizarding equivalent of Oxford Street. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, however, Professor McGonagall removed her wand from beneath the long sleeve of her dress and tapped a brick in the wall, which immediately began to move. Bricks shifted and reassembled themselves before Hermione’s eyes to form an archway, beyond which lay Diagon Alley.

Hermione’s jaw dropped at the sight. Hundreds of people clad in what she assumed to be wizarding robes of every colour, pattern, and style imaginable, although she could see some muggle outfits now and then. The shops, too, were unlike anything she had ever seen before. The street curved out of sight before long, but what Hermione could see was lined with shops boasting magical items, books, food, services, and anything else a witch or wizard could possibly need.

Professor McGonagall gave her a few moments to simply gape at the sight before her, but soon enough Hermione was ushered out of the archway and down into Diagon Alley itself. She let herself be guided through the crowds by Professor McGonagall, still too overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the Alley to pay any attention to where exactly they were going.

Every way she turned her head, something new and fascinating caught her interest: a shop selling owls of every size and shape; two elderly wizards complaining loudly about the price of powdered moonstone – “Three galleons an ounce they were asking for at Southwood and Stott! Never heard such cheek before in my life, and I’m one hundred and five”; a busker conducting the instruments – _just_ the instruments – of a string quartet with his wand.

Hermione was so caught up in trying to absorb every detail of the street around her that it was several minutes before she thought to look _ahead_ of her. When she did, she was confronted by the sight of an imposing building, gleaming in the Sun. It dwarfed the shops on either side of it, which were clearly older and built from grey stone instead of the clean white marble of the giant building at the end of the Alley. Above the massive double doors, gold lettering spelled out GRINGOTTS.

“Welcome to Gringotts, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall interrupted her staring. “The oldest wizarding bank in England and by virtually all accounts, the best. I must warn you, it is run entirely by goblins – they aren’t exactly the friendliest beings, but they do good work.”

“Goblins?” Hermione questioned, eyes widening.

“The magical world is home to beings and beasts of all kinds, Miss Granger, and you would do well to treat them with as much respect as you would afford any human being.” With that, Professor McGonagall led Hermione through the doors and into the building.

The interior of the building was just as impressive as the outside, and Hermione quickly discovered that the older witch had been entirely correct in her assessment of the goblins. They were brusque and unfriendly, but incredibly efficient, and before long Hermione found herself relieved of the muggle money her parents had given her, which had been replaced by a heavy pile of wizarding coins that seemed to have no logical reason behind their value. Professor McGonagall had explained to her how much each coin was worth, but Hermione was of the opinion that the wizarding world would greatly benefit from adopting the decimal system.

They made quick work of most of Hermione’s shopping, picking up a set of scales, a cauldron, several interesting-looking books and a few sets of robes in rapid succession. Eventually, the only essential item left on her list was a wand.

Hermione followed Professor McGonagall to a small, dark shop, barely noticeable tucked between its brightly-coloured, bustling neighbours. Looking at it gave Hermione a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach – not bad, but nothing she’d experienced before. Somehow, she knew that this was a place of powerful magic, even compared to the rest Diagon Alley.

Once they were inside, that feeling doubled in intensity. Despite its dusty, deserted appearance, the shop practically radiated _power_. An elderly man emerged noiselessly from behind a shelf stacked high with long, thin boxes – containing wands, Hermione presumed – and stared at the two witches with pale, unblinking eyes.

“Minerva McGonagall,” he said eventually. “I remember you well, Professor. Nine and a half inches, fir with dragon heartstring, yes?”

“Indeed, Mr Ollivander,” Professor McGonagall replied. She sounded slightly stiff; Hermione wondered if the shop gave her that same strange feeling Hermione felt.

“Yes, an excellent wand if I do say so myself, on the stiffer side but excellent for transfiguration. Your career choice after you resigned from the DMLE came as little surprise to me, Professor.”

Mr Ollivander turned his attention to Hermione. “This must be one of the new muggleborns students, of course. Your name, please?”

Hermione blinked, startled at being addressed so suddenly. “Hermione Granger, sir,” she replied.

“Miss Granger, very good. Now, which is your wand hand?” he asked, turning to one of the wand-filled shelves.

“Er, my left, sir?” It came out as a question. Hermione didn’t know if one’s wand hand was necessarily the one she wrote with, but it made sense to her, and she didn’t particularly want to ask.

“Excellent, excellent,” he mumbled, grabbing a box from the very top of the shelf. “Here we go, try this, Miss Granger. Eight inches, birch and unicorn hair. Good wand for charms work.”

Hermione found herself holding a pale wand and not having a clue what to do with it. She looked at Professor McGonagall. “Just try waving it, Miss Granger, to see how it responds to you. Wands contain powerful innate magic and as such some not respond well to a wizard or witch’s own magic. Mr Ollivander is rather fond of telling people that the wand – ”

“ – Chooses the wizard,” Mr Ollivander interrupted. Professor McGonagall gave him the same glare that Hermione’s primary school teachers had given misbehaving six-year-olds. “And, of course, the witch.”

Hermione, despite feeling rather silly, waved the wand in her hand tentatively. As far as she could see, nothing happened.

Mr Ollivander didn’t appear disappointed. On the contrary, he seemed oddly delighted as he took the wand out of her hand and replaced it with another. “Not to worry, perhaps this one – ten inches, oak and phoenix feather, might be a better fit…”

She had barely lifted the wand this time before Mr Ollivander snatched it back, again mumbling about it being “not the right fit.”

Several more boxes and the wands within them came and went, and Hermione, although she had the good sense not to say it out loud, was growing impatient. Eventually, Mr Ollivander handed her another wand – ten and three-quarter inches, vine and dragon heartstring – and instead of the decided inactivity that Hermione was used to, the tip of the wand produced a shower of coppery sparks when she waved it. The feeling was incredible, as though the powerful magic that Hermione had felt when she first entered the shop was being channelled through her.

“Well, Miss Granger, I do believe that you have found your wand,” Professor McGonagall said with a small smile, returned by Hermione’s beaming.

“Or rather, your wand has found you,” Mr Ollivander interjected. Professor McGonagall’s expression abruptly returned to its former disapproval, an expression that Hermione was already growing to fear above all else.

“Yes, thank you, Mr Ollivander,” she said, her voice clipped. “If you could let Miss Granger know how much her wand will be, we must be on our way.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Ollivander replied, seemingly unaffected by Professor McGonagall’s expression – which only cemented Hermione’s first impression that he wasn’t quite right in the head. “That will be six galleons and twelve sickles, Miss Granger.”

Hermione paid and followed Professor McGonagall out of the shop, still clutching her new wand tightly in hand. She had never felt so powerful as when she had managed to produce those coppery sparks, and resolved quietly to herself that she would never forfeit that power for anything.

* * *

The summer dragged.

Hermione was well aware that most other children her age would be delighted at the prospect of a summer that never seemed to end, desperate to make the most of their last days before the looming prospect of secondary school grew too close for comfort. To her, however, the slow drag of lazy summer days was almost intolerable. She found that she just couldn’t enjoy her ordinary little summer in her ordinary little town when she knew that there was a whole new world of the _extraordinary_ waiting for her in September.

She occupied herself, mostly, with her new school books. She had never turned down an opportunity to learn something new, and she was acutely aware that not growing up in a wizarding family like the ancient families in _A History of Magic_ would put her behind by default. Astronomy and Herbology, she had to admit, didn’t particularly excite her except where they related to the subject of Potions, which did. Along with Potions, Transfiguration and Charms were quickly rising among the list of subjects as potential favourites. She was itching to try out some of the spells from her textbook, but Professor McGonagall had warned her that now that she had her wand, doing magic outside of Hogwarts would land her in serious trouble – and that attempting spells for the first time with no way to fix anything that might go wrong was probably a bad idea anyway. So for now, she contented herself with the theory, which was fascinating enough in itself that she didn’t feel the loss too keenly.

When Hermione wasn’t reading, she was writing. Hogwarts, apparently, required the use of feather quills and inkpots. On a purely aesthetic level, Hermione could see the appeal; on the level of an actual human being, however, she hated quills. Everything took twice as long to write with a quill due to having to dip the nib in ink every few words, and that didn’t even account for the fact that quills were absolutely not designed with left-handed people like Hermione in mind. She couldn’t rest her hand on the paper she was using to practice without smudging her words so badly they were barely legible. She was determined to master quills before the start of the school year – surely the wizarding world had other left-handed people?

The end of August came, and with it an uptick in stress at the Granger household. Trains to London were booked, textbooks were anxiously reread, and the large, old-fashioned trunk that had sat empty in the corner of Hermione’s room since July slowly started to fill.

“Dad, have you seen my Herbology textbook?” Hermione cried two days before she was due to leave for Hogwarts, tearing through the stack of books-to-reread beside her bed.

“You packed it last night, Hermione!” her dad replied. “And don’t even think about taking it back out! God only knows how we’re going to get all your things packed if you keep refusing to put a single book in your trunk!”

Reluctantly, Hermione resigned herself to the fact that she would have to put a hold on her plans to triple-check the optimal planting season for bouncing bulbs. After an extended argument with both her parents, she allowed most of her books to be stowed away at the bottom of her trunk, except for the one non-essential book she had bought for herself at Professor McGonagall’s recommendation – _Hogwarts: A History_ , by Bathilda Bagshot, who had also written Hermione’s History of Magic textbook. In the last few days of August, Hermione pored over it almost obsessively; memorising the map of the castle, studying the histories of the four Houses and their founders, marvelling at the layers upon layers of complex protective enchantments that kept Hogwarts safe from the muggle world beyond its grounds.

The first of September 1991 dawned bright and warm. Hermione knew this because she had been awake for over an hour when dawn broke. Despite this, she had yet to drum up the necessary courage to get out of her bed and face that this was the day her magical education began.

 _Perhaps if I just stay here I won’t have to think about it,_ she lamented to herself, conveniently ignoring the irony of the thought before proceeding to think about _it_ excessively. _What if the Sorting Hat decides I don’t actually deserve to be in any of the Houses and they send me home? Or I’m really rubbish at magic compared to everyone who grew up with wizarding parents? What if I get Sorted into Slytherin and they all hate me because I’m muggleborns?_ Hogwarts: A History _says that Salazar Slytherin hated muggleborns and a lot of people who still hate muggleborns were Slytherins!_

She continued in her panicked train of thought until her mum came to tell her that breakfast was ready, and was greeted by the sight of her very stressed-out daughter practically jumping out of her skin. Hermione was so preoccupied with her own thoughts that the sound of her bedroom door opening had startled her.

“’Mione, darling, what’s wrong?” her mum asked, setting herself down gingerly at the end of Hermione’s bed.

Hermione, according to everyone who cared to comment on such things, looked very much like Amorette Granger. They shared the same sort of round face, the same dark, clever eyes, and the same deep brown skin tone – much darker than the comparatively light-skinned Thomas Granger. The only major difference, the one that people loved to point out as though neither Hermione nor her mum had noticed before, was their hair. Amorette kept hers tightly braided and pulled back, whereas Hermione’s was a riot of untamed curls.

“What if I’m not good enough to go to Hogwarts?” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “Every book I’ve read says that Hogwarts is one of the best magical schools in the world, what if they don’t think I’m good enough to stay? What if this is all a big mistake and I’m not really a witch after all?”

Amorette reached out and clasped her daughter’s hands in her own. “Hermione Jean Granger, you could tell me right now that you don’t want anything to do with Hogwarts, and that you just want to go to a muggle school and completely ignore that wizards exist for the rest of your life, and I’d be okay with that. Even if you're the worst witch in the universe, even if you're not a witch at all, that wouldn’t change the fact that me and Dad love you, and we’re so incredibly proud of you whatever you choose to do, because nothing will.”

Hermione smiled weakly, breaking free of her mum’s grip to wipe away a stray tear that had escaped onto her cheek without permission. “Thanks, Mum.”

The sound of Hermione’s dad shouting from the kitchen that they were going to miss their train unless they ate breakfast _now_ ended the moment, and Hermione quickly found herself rushed off her feet, entirely too busy with locating misplaced odds and ends to worry about what came next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my working title for this fic was "screw you jkr, slytherins deserve more rights than transphobes"
> 
> updates for this fic should be semi-regular since I have most of it planned out already but I'm also Depressed so do try not to hate me if I drop off the face of the fanfiction planet for a few weeks at a time
> 
> also if you think Hermione Granger, aged 11, wouldn't take one look at McGonagall and be like "she's my new hero and I want to be exactly like her" then you're wrong sorry


	2. Potential

Hermione was surprised at how easy it was. None of the Muggles at Kings Cross Station seemed to find anything strange about children dragging around old-fashioned trunks, many of whom were dressed as though they had only the vaguest idea of what an outfit was supposed to look like. Then again, Hermione reasoned, London was an odd place even without the wizards, so perhaps it wasn’t all that out of place.

She and her parents had arrived in London early. For the past half-hour, Hermione had sat watching as a steady stream of people disappeared through the hidden entrance to Platform 9¾. She'd tried to point it out to her parents, but realised when their eyes continued to skim over the wall without seeing that there was some kind of charm on the entrance to prevent muggles from noticing. With that came the realisation that muggle parents couldn't accompany their children to the platform, and as such Hermione decided to procrastinate going through for as long as possible.

Eventually, she could procrastinate no longer. Her hot chocolate had long since become cold chocolate, and the train was due to leave in fifteen minutes.  She’d seen over a hundred students pass through the barrier to Platform 9¾ with no trouble, but Hermione couldn’t help but tense as the wall approached. She needn’t have, as she passed through the barrier as though it didn’t exist.

Part of Hermione felt that after Diagon Alley, she shouldn’t be shocked at the sight of Platform 9¾. Her brain,  however, didn’t appear to have gotten the message.  She gaped at the long row of fireplaces that lined the walls of the platform, lighting up with green flames as families stepped through.  The Floo, Hermione remembered that she read about it in _A History of Magic_ after hearing Mrs Weasley mention it.  Smoke billowed forth from the chimney, obscuring a good part of the platform and the train itself, but Hermione could make out flashes of gleaming scarlet.  Students crowded around the doors – some exchanging tearful goodbyes with their families while others looked desperate to escape their parents’ clutches and join their friends.

Too absorbed in her observations, Hermione didn’t realise that she was still stood in front of the entrance to the muggle station.  Nor did she notice the loud clattering noise of an approaching trolley until something solid collided with the back of her knees, pushing her forward into her own trolley.

“Oh Merlin, I’m so sorry!” she heard a young, female voice exclaim.  Pushing herself upright with a groan, Hermione turned around to see a girl about her age, clutching a trolley that had knocked the wind out of her. The girl's tanned skin blushed a furious red that clashed with her golden blonde hair.  The trolley held a trunk identical to Hermione’s, but there was also a large cage containing a small grey kitten, curled up and fast asleep.

Hermione smiled at her in a way she hoped resembled the sort of reassuring smile her dad always gave her when she panicked about something. “It’s fine, don’t worry,” she said, “no harm done.”

The other girl looked relieved, her brown eyes brightening as she smiled back. “Oh, thank goodness. I’m Daphne, by the way. Daphne Greengrass. The kitten is Freyja.”

“Hermione Granger.”

Two more people appeared behind Daphne through the wall, a woman clutching a young girl’s hand, though thankfully neither of them were pushing trolleys.  Judging by the woman’s golden hair and dainty frame, Hermione assumed she was Daphne’s mother, meaning that the girl was probably Daphne’s sister.

“Daphne, what did I say about moving out of the way of the entrance!” the woman scolded lovingly, nudging both Daphne and Hermione to the side. “Making friends already, darling?”

“Mother, this is Hermione Granger,” Daphne gestured to Hermione, who waved. “I  accidentally ran my trolley into her so now we’re bonded for life. Hermione, this is my mother, and my little sister Astoria.”

Hermione, startled at how easily  Daphne had declared them friends, managed to remember enough of her manners to shake hands with Mrs Greengrass. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, dear. Where are your parents?” Mrs Greengrass asked as they made their way closer to the carriages.

“Oh… they’re muggles, they couldn’t get through the barrier,” Hermione explained hesitantly, her anxiety making a sudden, most unwelcome return as she remembered that Greengrass was one of the names on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. She had no idea how they’d react to muggleborns.

“Goodness, this must be so strange for you!” Mrs Greengrass exclaimed. Hermione relaxed and shrugged lightly.

“Sort of?  But it’s so exciting too, I never thought that anything like this was possible and I’m just so excited to learn about everything! Did you have a favourite subject at Hogwarts, Mrs Greengrass?”

Mrs Greengrass’ expression morphed into one that Hermione was used to seeing on her teachers, surprise mixed with a hint of a smile. “I was never particularly academic, in all honesty, but I’ve always been fond of Herbology,” she said.

They reached one of the carriages towards the centre of the train, and Hermione could see through the windows that some of the compartments were empty.  Mrs Greengrass helped them load their trunks, and Hermione went ahead as Daphne lingered to say her goodbyes to her family.  Daphne joined her as the train began to move, and for the first time in her life, Hermione made a tactful decision: to not mention the stray tears on Daphne's cheek as the two girls helped each other lift their trunks into the racks overhead.

“Do you mind if I let Freyja out for a bit?” Daphne asked. “ I feel  bad keeping her in that cage for the whole journey.”

“Of course not, she doesn’t exactly look like she’s going to cause trouble,” Hermione said.

Daphne laughed. “That’s because she’s asleep,” she said as she reached over to fiddle with the latch of the cage.

True to Daphne’s word,  barely a minute after her cage was open Freyja was awake and taking great joy in exploring her new surroundings.  She had managed to clamber up to the luggage racks and found herself unable to get down the same way, necessitating a rescue mission.  Daphne, being taller, climbed onto the seat to try to recapture her, while Hermione hovered with arms outstretched to catch either pet or owner if they fell.

Both girls were so focused on the cat that neither noticed the compartment door slide open. Freyja did notice and managed to unstick herself to make a break for freedom, launching herself towards the open door with enthusiasm, if not with grace.

One of the newcomers managed to reach up and catch the flailing escapee in one hand, a bewildered expression on her face. “Everything okay?” she asked, in the same voice that one would usually ask about the weather.

“Fine, thank you,” Daphne answered, stepping down from the seat to smile at the newcomers.  There were two of them, the auburn-haired girl who’d caught Freyja and a chubby blond boy who was clutching a glass tank housing a large brown toad.

“Daphne!” the girl exclaimed. “I didn’t realise that was you.”

Daphne beamed. “Susan, hi! How’ve you been?” she asked. “Here, sit down, we’re the only two in here at the moment.” She ushered the girl – Susan – into the compartment, the blond boy trailing behind.

Susan held Freyja up, who blinked innocently. “Whose cat is this?” she asked.

“Mine, her name’s Freyja,” Daphne replied, taking the kitten out of Susan’s hands and depositing her back in her cage, much to Freyja’s displeasure. When she withdrew her hand, it was covered in pink scratches that Daphne seemed to take no notice of.

Daphne and Hermione helped the other two stash their trunks away and settled back down. “Hermione, this is Susan Bones, our mums are friends,” Daphne explained. “Susan, meet Hermione Granger, who I hit with a trolley earlier and is now my new best friend.”  Susan, much like Mrs Greengrass, didn’t seem surprised by Daphne’s declaration, only smiling and exchanging hellos.

Susan gestured to the blond boy sat beside her. “This is Neville Longbottom, our parents used to work together. Daphne,  I think you know his grandmother? She was at that fundraiser ball your parents hosted in June.”

Neville waved, stuttering out a, “Hello,” to Daphne and Hermione.  Hermione smiled stiffly back at him as Daphne and Susan fell into a discussion, realising that she was the only muggleborn among the four of them. She knew Daphne didn’t mind, but she’d only just met Susan and Neville.  They both seemed nice, but then again so did some of the racists who came into her mum and dad’s surgery until they realised their dentist was black.

She was jolted out of her anxious thoughts by the sound of Neville calling her name. “Sorry, what was that?” she asked.

“I asked if you were ok, you looked like a ghost flew through you!”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she replied. “I didn’t realise so many people knew each other in the wizarding world.”

“You’re muggleborn?” Susan asked, breaking off her conversation with Daphne. Hermione nodded. “That’s cool, I’m a half-blood! Pureblood dad, muggleborn mum.”

Hermione smiled, relieved. “Did they meet at Hogwarts?” she asked, purely out of curiosity.

“No, my mum went to Beauxbatons, so they met after,” Susan said.  “It's the biggest wizarding school in France,” she explained before Hermione could ask.

“Oh, I never thought about there being other wizarding schools. I suppose it seems daft to assume that everybody came to Britain to go to school,” Hermione said.

Daphne laughed. “I wouldn’t worry too much, ‘Mione, most British wizards like to act like Hogwarts is the only school in the world.”

“Do you know what House you want to be in, Hermione?” Susan asked.

“I hadn't really thought about it, to be honest.  Gryffindor and Slytherin both sound interesting, though I suppose I’d fit quite well in Ravenclaw too.”

“My dad was a Gryffindor, but honestly  I’d prefer to be a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw,” Susan said. “Mum always says that if she went to Hogwarts, she’d have been a Hufflepuff.”

“My mum was a Slytherin and my dad was a Ravenclaw,” Daphne volunteered. “I’d quite like to be in either of those, but Mother always says that Gryffindors are bull-headed prigs.”

Neville flushed. “My family's been all Gryffindors for about a century,” he said sheepishly.

Daphne’s face coloured in return. “Oh, sorry Neville. I didn’t mean I believed her, that’s  just  what she likes to say –”

“It’s fine, Daphne,” Neville cut her off. “My Gran never says much nice about Slytherins either. I bet I'll end up in Hufflepuff, though,” he said, his face falling.

Daphne glanced down at the watch on her wrist and yelped in shock. “Merlin, I didn’t realise it was twelve already!  We should get changed soon,” she told the others, “my cousin Adrian said the toilets are always packed in the afternoon.”

The four of them retrieved their robes from their trunks and took turns changing in the cramped loos at the end of the carriage. As she exited the toilet, Hermione found that Daphne’s cousin was right. A queue of students had formed along the corridor, black uniform robes clutched in hand.

With some tutting, shoving, and a general aura of disapproval, Hermione made her way back towards the compartment. On her way, she ran into Neville and Susan, who appeared to be looking for something.

“Have you lost something?” she asked them.

Neville turned to her, face white. “Trevor escaped!” he cried.  “I took him out of his tank so Daphne could say hello to him and he got scared by her cat so he started wriggling and I couldn’t grab him in time!”

“Didn’t you think to close the door before taking Trevor out of his tank?” Hermione scolded. Neville fixed his face towards the floor, face reddening, but she paid him no notice. “Never mind, I’ll help you look for him. Is Daphne looking too?”

“She’s staying in the compartment in case Trevor manages to get back on his own,” Susan answered. “We should split up; it’ll be faster that way.”

Hermione nodded. “That sounds smart.  You and Neville should finish this carriage and then search the ones in front, I’ll start with the carriages behind us.”

She didn't wait to hear the pair’s agreements before bustling off, making her way down the train in search of Neville’s amphibious companion to no avail. It would appear that toads, when properly motivated by fear, can go a long way in a short time.

In the carriage behind hers, she came across Ron Weasley, the boy she had met in Diagon Alley. He hadn’t seen Neville’s toad, but was trying to turn his rat yellow with a spell one of his brothers – George – had given him. To Hermione, it didn’t sound like a real spell at all.  He didn’t seem to appreciate being told so, but she could see the boy next to him – small and skinny, with vivid green eyes that stood out against his tan skin and a shock of black hair that could rival Hermione’s own for anti-gravitational properties – hiding a laugh.

“I’m Hermione Granger, by the way,” she introduced herself to the small boy. “You are?”

He looked surprised that she was talking to him. “Harry Potter,” he replied.

Hermione gasped. “Oh, I’ve read about you! You’re in _Modern Magical History_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century!”_ She’d skimmed through them both in Flourish and Blotts while shopping, and was looking forward to being able to go through them again at Hogwarts. “You’re even in _A History of Magic!_ Though there isn’t much there, only a few paragraphs,” she lamented.

“Am I?” he asked, sounding bemused at the prospect of being someone who was written about.

“Didn’t you know?” asked Hermione. “I’d have found out everything I could if I were you.”

Neither boy had an answer to that, and Hermione felt an irrepressible need to fill the awkward silence she’d created. “Do either of you have any idea what House you’d like to be in?  I’ve talked to a few others, and  I think  I’ll most likely be a Ravenclaw, though Gryffindor or Slytherin both sound rather appealing, don’t you think ?”

“My whole family are Gryffindors,” Ron said, shortly. “I don’t think I could live with the shame if I got Sorted into Slytherin.”

Hermione blinked at the tone of his voice. “Well, I met a girl on the platform whose mum was a Slytherin, and she seemed perfectly decent to me. I am rather concerned I wouldn’t fit in since my parents are muggles, but the whole issue seems rather silly to me.”

She hesitated, but neither boy said anything more. “… Anyway, I should go and try to find Neville’s toad. Bye-bye!”

On her way out, she heard Ron mutter to Harry, “She’ll probably end up in Ravenclaw, bloody know-it-all. I  just  hope that whatever House I end up in, she isn’t there!”

She slammed the door shut with more force than necessary. _Whatever House you end up in, Ron Weasley, I pity them_.

Two carriages later, Trevor in hand, she returned victorious to her own compartment.  He’d been found hopping along the corridor by a third-year girl named Angelina, whose long braids reminded Hermione of her mum. She explained that she'd kept a hold of him for safekeeping until she could find either his owner or a teacher.

“Trevor!” Neville cried when he spotted the toad in Hermione’s hand.  She handed him over and accepted the handkerchief Susan offered her – Trevor’s skin was slimy, and Hermione found it revolting.

With Trevor back in his tank, Freyja in her cage, and the four humans finally settled into their seats, the remaining hours dwindled by in a haze of laughter and trolley sweets until the sun began to dip below the horizon.

Daphne, who had been gazing out of the window for the last half hour or so, was the first to spot it. “Look!” she yelled, jumping out of her seat. “There it is! There’s Hogwarts!”

Hermione shot up from her spot on the floor, where she’d been playing with Freyja, and pressed her face to the window. Her jaw dropped at the sight.  The castle was magnificent in the glow of the sunset, huge and sprawling across the top of the mountain it perched on, with towers creeping towards the sky and a thousand glimmering windows.

It was more beautiful than anything Hermione could ever dream of.

* * *

The doors the Great Hall swung open with a wave of Professor McGonagall’s wand.  Hermione kept up a constant stream of excited whispering to Justin Finch-Fletchley, another muggleborn student. “The ceiling is enchanted to reflect the sky outside, I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_.  Rowena Ravenclaw created the enchantment back when the school was first built, it’s quite astonishing that it’s held up for so long…”

She forced herself to be silent for Professor McGonagall’s speech, and the Sorting Hat’s song.  Though neither provided her with any more information than she'd learned from her books, some of her fellow first years clearly hadn’t been so studious.

“Abbot, Hannah!” Professor McGonagall called out, and Hermione’s heart jumped to her throat as she realised that this was _it_. Whatever decision the Hat made today would decide people’s perceptions of her for the rest of her life.

The first few students, Susan among them, passed in a blur – all Hufflepuffs. “Boot, Terry,” became the first Ravenclaw, and a pretty brunette girl – “Brown, Lavender!” – became the first Gryffindor.  “Bulstrode, Millicent,” joined Slytherin House, and Hermione was disturbed to hear boos and jeers from the Gryffindor table. She’d known of the rivalry between the Houses, but nobody from Slytherin had booed Lavender Brown.  She decided on the spot that she wanted no part of a House that found booing eleven-year-olds acceptable.

More students passed, working down the alphabet, and Hermione could feel herself start to panic as “Gardiner, Joshua,” became another new Gryffindor.  Two more names – “Goldstein, Anthony,” and “Goyle, Gregory,” – and Hermione trembled as she made her way to the Sorting Hat.

The Hat’s voice made her flinch. “Hmmm, let’s see what we have. Oh, plenty of brains, that’s obvious – you’d make a fine Ravenclaw, I don't doubt. Alas, my job is not only to see what you _are_ , but what you are capable of being, and that is a far more interesting matter.”

_What do you mean?_ she asked, not knowing whether it (he?) could even hear her.

“I can hear you, Miss Granger, and I am happy to be referred to as ‘it’, as I am not a person.  What I mean is that while you would excel in Ravenclaw, I do not believe that it is where you would thrive,” the Hat explained. “I can see your ambition, your determination to not only survive in this world but to conquer it.  You are loyal to those you love, hardworking too, and with no shortage of courage, but I do think those qualities will only further your desire to succeed. Yes, it is best… SLYTHERIN!”

Part of Hermione was disappointed  – she didn’t know any of the Slytherin students, and some of them looked rather intimidating – but a greater part of her was excited. She’d been half-expected to be Sorted into Ravenclaw, but Slytherin wasn’t a surprise to her either.  Her grandmother liked to tell her that she had dreams bigger than her head – Hermione took it as a compliment, though it wasn't one.

She sat down at the end of the Slytherin table with the other first years as Daphne’s name was called. A full minute passed before the Hat called out, “SLYTHERIN!”

Hermione’s cheer was louder than she intended it to be, but the smile Daphne flashed her as she approached the Slytherin table was worth it.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Daphne replied, squeezing her hand under the table. “I’m glad we didn’t get separated.”

“Me too.”

Neville, several students later, went to Gryffindor. He'd spent so long with the Hat on his head that Hermione half-wondered if it’d gotten stuck.  Hermione hadn’t expected him to go to Slytherin (or Ravenclaw either if she was being brutally honest), but he hadn’t exactly struck her as the brash type.

The next new Slytherin, “Malfoy, Draco,” was a pale, blond, arrogant-looking boy who had barely placed the Hat on his head before he was Sorted.

“I’d be careful of him, Hermione,” Daphne whispered. “My family knows his family, and they’re the worst sort of blood supremacists. His father sided with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during the war – you know about it?” Hermione nodded.  “Okay, well Lucius Malfoy was one of You-Know-Who’s most loyal servants, but he managed to convince the Ministry that he’d been cursed into it. Mother and Father don’t believe a word of it, he’s the exact sort of bigot that You-Know-Who attracted.”

“I’ll be careful, but I’m not lying about my parents or anything,” Hermione replied. “This isn’t the first time people have disliked me for silly things and it won’t be the last either.”

Two more students went to Hufflepuff, and three more joined the Slytherin table –  all of whom seemed to know Daphne.  A pair of twins – “Patil, Parvati,” and “Patil, Padma,” – went to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw  respectively, and “Perks, Sally-Anne,” became a Hufflepuff, before the Great Hall fell silent as Professor McGonagall called out, “Potter, Harry!”

He was so small the Hat fell over his eyes, only held up by his ears. It took a long time, longer even than Neville, for the Hat to come to a decision. “SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table erupted into cheers, but Hermione noticed that the rest of the Hall sat in stunned silent – apart from a few boos from the Gryffindor table, but even those seemed quieter, less sure.

As the Sorting resumed, Theo Nott leaned over to explain to Hermione.  “You-Know-Who and a lot of his followers were Slytherins, the House has a bit of a reputation for producing dark wizards. Everyone’s wondering how The Great Harry Potter could get Sorted into the ‘Evil House’.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione replied fiercely. “  Just  because some Slytherins turned out to be bad people doesn’t mean that’s true of us all!”

“I know, but people are stupid sometimes.”

Hermione rolled her eyes in agreement and turned to smile at Harry as he settled himself next to her at the end of the table. He returned the smile weakly and turned back to watch the Sorting as Ron Weasley approached the Hat.

Whatever the Hat was saying, he didn’t appreciate it. A few moments later, it became clear to Hermione why he was so agitated as the Hat cried out, “SLYTHERIN!”

Ron’s face crumpled, and he turned to Professor McGonagall as though to protest, but she simply said, “The Hat has made its choice, Mr Weasley, and though you may not understand it yet I have never known it to be wrong. I suggest you join your Housemates at the Slytherin table.”

He did so, dragging his feet the entire way like he was hoping the Hat would suddenly announce that it had made a mistake, and he should be joining his brothers in Gryffindor instead. No such announcement came, and he sat as close to the end of the table as possible. Harry turned to speak to him, but didn’t seem to have much luck in comforting him.

“Is it so bad?” Hermione heard Harry ask. “I know there’s been plenty of evil Slytherins, but that doesn’t mean they’re all bad people!”

“Fine, then show me one good one,” Ron replied sulkily.

“Ron, I’ve known I was a wizard for a month, and I’ve spoken to exactly three Slytherins, including you.  Malfoy’s a git, sure, and  maybe  his family are too, but you can’t expect me to assume all Slytherins are evil because of a few people!”

Hermione tuned them out as “Zabini, Blaise,” joined the table.  She didn’t particularly care how Ron Weasley felt about their House – she hadn’t liked him before they were Sorted, and she doubted she’d like him any more as her Housemate.  Harry seemed nice, but if he was determined to stick with his friend – and Hermione couldn’t blame him for that – then she didn’t think they’d be spending much time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, sweet 'Mione, how wrong you are.
> 
> My apologies, I severely overestimated my own ability to be productive and this chapter ended up taking much longer than I expected it to. Hopefully, the next one will be up sooner than three months from now, but I make no promises.
> 
> Daphne's cat Freyja is named after the Norse goddess, who rides a chariot pulled by two grey cats. Both Freyjas, mythological and feline, are awesome.
> 
> Also, I know this chapter might seem hard on Ron and Gryffindors, but everyone is a judgemental little eleven-year-old who is yet to undergo character development at the moment.


	3. Playing Favourites

Hermione's first few days of classes flew by, and she'd never been happier in her life. She _loved_ Hogwarts. She'd always liked learning, but she couldn't help but find school boring. There was never anything challenging enough to keep her occupied for long, and she'd spent most of her primary school life waiting for her classmates to catch up.

This was different, though. This was _magic;_ new and exciting and so, so interesting.

She enjoyed Charms, in part because it was a joint class with the Hufflepuffs, which meant Susan was there, but also because Professor Flitwick was so enthusiastic about Charms that it was infectious. To be fair, he was enthusiastic about everything, including Harry Potter - he'd fallen out of his chair when he'd first spotted him in class.

Hermione had managed to win her first points for Slytherin by recalling the incantation for a wand-lighting charm. This prompted a snarky comment of _"Swot,"_ from Ron and a disgusted eye-roll from Draco, who looked horrified to have anything in common with each other.

Hermione had asked Daphne later why Ron and Draco seemed to be so intent on hating each other. Daphne explained that while Draco's family were the worst kind of blood purists, the Weasleys had been pro-muggle for generations. Hermione silently revised her opinion of Ron from 'utter prick' to 'moron with half-decent morals'. It wasn't much of a promotion, but she stopped sticking her nose up at his and Harry's loud games of Exploding Snap in the common room quite so much.

Herbology and Astrology were never going to be her favourite subjects, but they were interesting enough to keep her engaged. History of Magic - though still interesting in its subject matter - was taught by the dullest ghost in the castle, and it took a lot of effort for Hermione not to fall asleep in class. Similarly, Defence Against the Dark Arts would have been fun if it weren't for the nervous disposition of Professor Quirrell, whose refusal to discuss anything scarier than a Jelly-Legs Jinx made the class only slightly less boring than History of Magic. The classroom was also offensively garlic-scented, which didn't improve Hermione's opinion of the subject.

Hermione's first Transfiguration class only confirmed what she'd first thought when reading through her textbooks: it was her favourite class by far. Professor McGonagall was strict and no-nonsense without being dull, which Hermione and the Ravenclaws she shared the class with appreciated. She was also the only teacher to allow them to attempt a spell in their first lesson - transfiguring a match into a sewing needle. Hermione had been the first to succeed in turning the slim piece of wood into silvery metal, barely beating Ravenclaw's Hannah Jordan. Her reward was ten House points and a rare smile from Professor McGonagall, which kept her in high spirits for the rest of the day.

Early on, Hermione decided that the worst thing about Hogwarts was the fact that teachers insisted that she use quills. For all her practice, her penmanship remained awful, and she all too often found herself having to choose between comprehensive notes and legible ones. The only good thing about History of Magic was that Professor Binns never noticed his students, leaving Hermione free to take notes with her smuggled-in ballpoints. In lessons that had teachers that actually paid attention to their students, however, Hermione found herself with a quill in hand, ink stains on her palms, and a scowl on her face. Even when teachers were sympathetic to Hermione's plight - such as Professor Flitwick - she had no luck in convincing them to let her use a pen.

"All of your classmates are using quills and ink, Miss Granger," Professor Flitwick had told her when she contested having to put her pen away. "And besides, your end-of-year exams will require you to use a quill bewitched with anti-cheating charms. It's for the best that you get used to quills as soon as possible."

Things took a turn for the worse on Wednesday as Hermione, Daphne, and the other Slytherins trudged from History of Magic to the dungeons for their first Potions lesson. The classroom was frigid despite the rest of the castle enjoying the last of the summer sun, and Hermione made a mental note to wear tights under her robes the next time she had Potions. She and Daphne were quick to claim a table near the front of the class, and were soon joined by Neville and another Gryffindor boy she hadn't met before. The new boy introduced himself as Matt with a quick smile and a flash of dimples.

As the classroom started to fill, Hermione noted that theirs was one of very few tables with students from both Houses. Ron and Harry were sitting with two Gryffindor boys near the back, and Tracey Davies, one of two half-blood Slytherins in their year, was with a trio of Gryffindors. Everybody else, whether by choice or out of habit, were sat with their own House.

Professor Snape swept into the room, his long robes billowing behind him like a particularly menacing black cloud. He glared at the room at large, and Hermione tensed without meaning to. He was her Head of House, and she had no logical reason to think he would dislike her, but he intimidated her regardless.

He took the register quickly, only pausing at Harry's name. "Our new... _celebrity,"_ he sneered. Hermione was sort of impressed at how he managed to make the word _celebrity_ seem like an insult.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he told the class. His voice was as deep and cold as the dungeons themselves, and rang heavy in the silence of the classroom. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death itself." He paused, letting the silence hang in the air. _"If_ you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Offended at the idea that she might be considered part of a bunch of dunderheads, big or small, Hermione sat forward in her seat.

"Potter!" the professor snapped. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

_The Draught of Living Death,_ Hermione remembered. It had been mentioned in their textbook, but only in passing as an advanced sleeping potion that no beginner could hope to attempt.

Her hand shot into the air on reflex, but Professor Snape ignored it as Harry stared blankly up at him. "I don't know, sir," he said.

"Oh dear," Professor Snape said, not sounding very disappointed. If anything, he seemed pleased that Harry didn't know the answer. "Let's try again, Potter. Where would you look should you need to find a bezoar?"

Hermione stretches her hand as far up as she could without leaving her seat. It didn't make much of a difference. Professor Snape continued to glare at Harry as though he'd offended him by existing, while Harry continued to look confused.

"I don't know, sir," he said again.

_Goat's stomach, goat's stomach, goat's stomach!_ Hermione mentally chanted. Her thoughts - loud as they were - went unnoticed.

"Too arrogant to open a book before coming, Potter?" Professor Snape sneered.

Bezoars, much like the Draught of Living Death, had only been mentioned once, in a chapter on potions and their antidotes. Hermione didn't understand why Harry forgetting about it was so offensive to Professor Snape, but she was glad she'd memorised her textbooks if this was the standard he set.

He wasn't done interrogating Harry yet, though. "I don't suppose you'd know the difference between monkshood and wolfbane, Potter?"

Hermione couldn't help herself, rising from her seat to stretch her arm ever-higher as her frustration built. _I know the answer, why are you so fixated on Harry? He obviously doesn't know, ask someone else!_

"No, sir," Harry said. "Looks like Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

She could feel heat rise to her cheeks as scattered giggles broke out throughout the classroom, but she remained standing until Professor Snape turned to look at her.

"Sit down before I start taking points, Granger."

She sat, glaring, as Professor Snape berated Harry.

Her glare remained fixed onto her face for the rest of the class - through Professor Snape's lecture, through his blatant favouritism towards Draco Malfoy, and even through his apparent determination to let anyone but Hermione answer a question.

Every time he asked the class something, Hermione would raise her hand, and he would ignore her completely. He would choose another Slytherin, or pick on a Gryffindor who didn't know the answer just for the excuse to penalise them. Neville was a particular favourite target of his for reasons Hermione couldn't fathom.

She knew she wasn't the only one to notice, either. Daphne, sat next to her, was trembling with poorly-concealed rage. The Gryffindors grew angrier by the second, and Seamus Finnegan earned himself the first detention of the year by telling Professor Snape to, "Ask someone who knows the fucking answer for once, dickhead!"

Hermione was scandalised, of course, but sort of impressed. Seamus may have been as hot-headed as Gryffindor's reputation claimed, but he did have a point.

* * *

The first time Harry Potter initiated a conversation with Hermione Granger was at dinner, only a few hours after their disastrous first flying lesson. It did not go well for him.

Hermione's anger had been steadily brewing since Neville had ended up in the Hospital Wing and Draco Malfoy had stolen his Remembrall. Then, Harry had gone and chased him into the air, getting himself caught by Professor McGonagall and losing all of the House Points Hermione had earned. To top it all off, she arrived at the Great Hall for dinner to discover that Professor Snape - who _hated_ Harry - had gone to Dumbledore and gotten permission for Harry to try out for the Slytherin Quidditch team!

That anger had boiled over spectacularly as Harry sat down opposite her and Daphne, his ginger-haired sidekick in tow as always. He smiled at Hermione. She remained stone-faced.

"Hi Hermione, Daphne," he started. "You're friends with Neville, right?"

Hermione nodded. "We are. Why do you care?"

Almost sheepishly, he removed Neville's Remembrall from his pocket. Hermione had forgotten that he had taken it with him when Professor McGonagall had sent him to Professor Snape's office, and from the look on Daphne's face, so had she. "Could you give this back to Neville for me, please? I'd go myself but I have detention tonight."

Hermione sniffed, snatching the Remembrall out of Harry's hands. "Well, it's good to see you're facing _some_ consequences for your actions, at least."

Harry gaped at her. "I didn't _ask_ Snape to go to Dumbledore, it was his idea!"

She turned her nose up at him. "I doubt you're sorry for doing what you did, though, now that you're getting rewarded for it!" She stood and grabbed Daphne's hand, pulling her along as she flounced towards the door. "I'll take this to Neville, but not because you asked me too. "If I didn't want him to get it back in one piece, I'd make you do it yourself, but you'd probably only throw it down the stairs while practicing for Quidditch try-outs anyway."

She caught a glimpse of the hurt look on Harry's face as she left the Great Hall, and guilt stirred in her gut as she reflected that she may have overreacted a little. Her worry for Neville had mixed with her anger and strengthened it, solidifying it into a cold fury that had exploded out of her when Harry approached.

"Hermione," Daphne said carefully. "Don't you think that was a little harsh?"

Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Probably," she agreed. "I know he didn't ask for special treatment, but it's so frustrating that he broke the rules and got rewarded for it while Slytherin takes the punishment!"

"I know," Daphne sympathised, "but like you said, he didn't ask for it. And he still has a month's worth of detention. Anyway," she snorted, "if he's that good on a broom with no training whatsoever he'll earn back those points in no time!"

"I suppose you're right," Hermione conceded. "I'll apologise to him late. We should get this back to Neville first, and I'll need to go to the Library if I want to get a head start on our Charms homework. Levitation charms look to be rather simple, but I want to double check _The Fundamentals of Movement Charms_ in case I missed something..."

Daphne shook her head with an exasperated smile on her face. "We've been here since Sunday, how have you already memorised the entire contents of the Hogwarts Library?"

It took them several attempts to find the Hospital Wing - one hundred and forty-two moving staircases did not make for an easy castle to navigate even with the map Hermione had found in _Hogwarts, A History_ \- but Hermione and Daphne finally arrived, much later than they'd planned, to find Neville sat up in one of the beds looking completely fine. His injured wrist, which had been swollen and dark with bruises not four hours earlier, had returned to its usual pale pudginess.

Neville gasped in surprise at the sight of them. "I thought you weren't coming!" he exclaimed, shuffling to make room for Daphne to perch on the end of his bed as Hermione took the chair next to it.

"Course we were going to come and see if you're alright, Nev," Daphne replied, rummaging through the pockets of her robes. She emerged victorious, clutching a large handkerchief wrapped around several pumpkin pasties that she'd pilfered from the table at dinner. She handed the makeshift parcel over to Neville, who eagerly descended upon them.

"Fank 'oo so m'uch," he garbled out around a mouthful of pasty. Seeing Hermione's disgusted expression, he forced himself to swallow before continuing. "I'm starving," he explained. "Madame Pomfrey wouldn't let me eat anything and I barely ate lunch because I was so nervous about flying!"

The mention of their fiasco of a class jogged Hermione's memory. "That reminds me," she said, reaching into her own robes to produce Neville's Remembrall. "Harry asked me to give this to you. He said he'd have given it to you himself except he has detention."

She handed the Remembrall to Neville, who blushed when it immediately glowed red before he dropped it onto the bedside table next to him, next to a roll of parchment. "Wait, how did Harry get this?" he asked.

Hermione cursed herself for not realising that Neville wouldn't know what happened. "Your Remembrall must have fallen out of your pocket when you, well..." She trailed off, not wanting to bring up what had happened again.

Luckily, Daphne picked up where Hermione's conversational skills failed her. "Anyway, when Madame Hooch took you to the Hospital Wing, Malfoy found it and started making fun of you. Harry told him to give it back, but Malfoy's a knob, so of course he didn't. He started flying around with it to stop Harry from grabbing but, but Harry got on his broom too and it turns out he's some kind of prodigy because Malfoy lobbed your Remembrall from about twenty feet in the air and Harry caught it!" She was growing increasingly animated as she spoke, arms flailing as Neville hung onto her every word.

"And then, of course, he got caught by Professor McGonagall!" Hermione interrupted, indignant. "He lost all the points I earned in lessons this week, _and then_ Professor Snape went to Professor Dumbledore and got him permission to try out for the Quidditch team!" The snit she'd managed to work herself into, which had faded somewhat since her dramatic exit from the Great Hall, had returned in full force.

Daphne leaned over to Neville, stage-whispering. "I think she's more annoyed about the lost points than anything." Neville giggled and nodded in agreement.

Hermione pouted, but soon found herself distracted when she remembered that Neville's wrist had been badly sprained that afternoon, but was fine new. "Neville, what spell did Madame Pomfrey use to heal your wrist so fast?" she asked. "In the muggle world a sprain like that would have taken at least a few days to heal."

"I-I-I don't know," Neville admitted. "I can't remember."

Madame Pomfrey emerged from her office just in time to overhear Hermione's question. "It was a fairly basic healing spell, Miss Granger, but I would not recommend that you attempt to heal anything yourself until at least your fifth year. A badly-done healing spell can be worse than no healing spell at all," she explained as she approached Neville's bed. "Mr Longbottom, is your wrist feeling any tenderness or aching?"

"No, Madame Pomfrey," Neville answered.

Madame Pomfrey pointed her wand at his wrist. _"Malus invenium,"_ she said. Nothing happened that Hermione could see, but Madame Pomfrey seemed satisfied.

"Very well, Mr Longbottom, you may leave," she said. "I'll let Madame Hooch know that you're not to take part in flying lessons for another week in case you reinjure it."

To nobody's surprised, Neville was only too happy to be banned from leaving the ground.

As the trio moved towards the doors of the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey called out after them. "Mr Longbottom! Your Herbology homework is still on the bedside table!"

* * *

During Friday's double Potions lesson, Professor Snape continued to ignore Hermione as much as possible. Unlike on Wednesday, however, she found herself rather grateful. He had told them to make a simple swelling solution using the instructions in their textbooks, offering them no further advice before he began prowling the classroom.

Back in primary school, Hermione and the rest of her year six class had spent a week at a local secondary school. According to her teacher, it was supposed to prepare them for the move to secondary school in year seven. One of the lessons they'd had there was a very simple chemistry lab, dropping tiny magnesium strips into test-tubes of different liquids and recording the effects.

Potion-brewing, it transpired, managed to be both very similar and very different to that. The concepts were similar, adding things to other things to create a new thing, but potions were far more complex in both theory and execution than any year seven science practical. Regardless, the precision of both appealed to her, and Potions was something of a welcome relief to the part of Hermione's brain that couldn't quite let go of a childhood's worth of science lessons being turned on their head. It was still _magic,_ sure, but it was far more grounded in the real and the physical than any "foolish wand-waving," to quote Professor Snape.

While Hermione quickly discovered that she possessed the same natural talent for Potions that she did for other forms of magic, the same could not be said of most of her classmates. As Professor Snape stalked the classroom, almost every student he passed received a scathing critique of their attempts. Nothing about his criticism was constructive, merely a ruthless evisceration of his students' work. The only person in class to "earn" Professor Snape's approval was Draco Malfoy, and Hermione had already heard whispers in the Slytherin common room that the dour professor was close to Draco's father.

Given his treatment of her classmates - especially poor Neville, who looked about two seconds from crying into his cauldron - Hermione decided to take it as a compliment when Professor Snape moved past her cauldron without commenting. As far as Hermione could figure, no comments were good comments.

Most of the professors had been kind enough to not pile too much homework onto the students in their first weeks - read a chapter here, write a few paragraphs there, but nothing especially taxing. Hermione was disappointed but not surprised to discover that Professor Snape did not abide by the same philosophy. Twelve inches on the use of billywig wings in swelling solutions did seem a little excessive, though.

His harshness also sparked a small fire of curiosity in Hermione. The first time her parents had found out she was being bullied, her dad had told that people usually became bullies because someone else was bullying them. Hermione couldn't imagine _anyone_ picking on Professor Snape - he scared her, just a little bit - but she couldn't help but wonder what had made Professor Snape so vindictive.

She decided that she would consult Professor McGonagall. While the older woman was the Head of Gryffindor, Hermione had a feeling that she would still be willing to answer her questions. She also seemed like the professor who would be most likely to give Hermione straight answers instead of treating her like a child.

First years had Friday afternoons free, but Hermione figured that Professor McGonagall would still be busy teaching until dinner. She spent the several hours between the end of lunch and the start of dinner in the Library, starting and finishing the first draft of her Potions essay to pass the time.

Hermione kept a close eye on the teachers' table during dinner, only lending one ear to Daphne's conversation with Lily Moon. As soon as she spotted Professor McGonagall rise from the table, she abandoned her half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie in favour of trailing after the professor.

She caught up to Professor McGonagall at the foot of the stairs. "Professor!" she called out.

The older woman paused. "Miss Granger?" she asked. "Surely you cannot have a question about your homework already?"

"No, Professor," Hermione replied. "I actually finished it yesterday, though I found a fascinating book in the library earlier that talked about the dangers of wood-to-metal transfiguration on larger scales and I'm considering rewriting my essay to include what I found - "

"You wanted to ask me something, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall interrupted gently.

"Oh, yes, of course," Hermione ducked her head in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, everything is just so interesting."

Professor McGonagall smiled. "I can understand that," she said, "I only wish some of your classmates were similarly enthusiastic. Come," she gestured towards the stairs. "We can talk in my office."

The Transfiguration professor's office was sparsely decorated, but lacked any sense of emptiness or coldness. Bookshelves and cupboards lined the walls, but there were only a few pieces of furniture; a large, sturdy looking desk covered in neat piles of parchment, and two scarlet armchairs next to the fireplace. Despite the lack of frills, a roaring fireplace and a plush tartan rug gave the office an air of comfort and warmth.

"Sit, Miss Granger." Professor McGonagall gestured to one of the armchairs as she settled into the other.

Hermione sat, feeling more than a little strange to be sitting across from one of her teachers without a desk between them. The armchair was comfortable, though.

"Now, what was it that you wanted to discuss?"

Hermione hesitated at first, unsure of where to start. Once she did, however, she found that she couldn't stop. Potions class, Flying lessons, her frustrations with Professor Snape's refusal to actually _teach_ instead of just criticising, his favouritism towards Draco Malfoy and his unfounded dislike of herself, Harry, and Neville all poured out.

It took Hermione a while to run out of steam. When she did, Professor McGonagall didn't speak, simply waving her wand towards a silver tea set on her desk, which immediately soared towards the two witches and hovered in the air between them. With her free hand, Professor McGonagall gestured towards the tea set.

"Help yourself, Miss Granger," she told Hermione.

Hermione was confused, but took a cup anyway. To her surprise, the kettle followed, filling her cup with piping hot tea.

"Do you take milk?" Professor McGonagall asked. "Sugar?"

"Milk, no sugar please." Hermione watched in fascination as a milk jug and a teaspoon moved of their own accord, stirring in milk until she asked them to stop. She thanked them, feeling rather foolish, but was rewarded with a happy little spin from the teaspoon.

The milk jug didn't seem to care.

Professor McGonagall sat back with her own cup in hand. "I'm... disappointed," she started.

Hermione stared at her in shock. She hadn't done anything wrong!

The professor noticed the look on her face. "Not in you, Miss Granger!" she corrected quickly. "I am disappointed in Professor Snape. I had a feeling that this year would be a difficult one for him, but I thought he would be enough of an adult to not take his foolish schoolboy rivalries out on eleven-year-olds!"

Hermione was relieved to know that she wasn't in trouble, but Professor McGonagall's outburst raised more questions than it answered. "Schoolboy rivalries?" she asked.

"I suppose I ought to give you some explanation as to Professor Snape's behaviour," Professor McGonagall conceded after a moment's pause. "I cannot explain all of his actions, mind you, since I don't understand them myself. The best I can offer you regarding his treatment of Mr Longbottom is that Professor Snape does not treat those who lack natural talent for his subject with an abundance of sympathy, and I haven't the foggiest as to why he would be so determined to ignore you. He's usually unbearable smug when one of his snakes shows even half as much promise as you do."

Hermione giggled, both at the compliment and at the mental image of Professor Snape expressing such a positive emotion as smugness. "What about Harry?" she prompted. "Professor Snape hates him more than he hates any of the rest of us, but he still got him permission to try out for the Quidditch team!"

Professor McGonagall sighed. "Professor Snape has a rather... complicated history with Harry's parents. I'd hoped that he would have the good sense to realise that Mr Potter is not either of his parents, but apparently that was too much to ask."

Hermione took a sip of her tea. Surprisingly, it was perfect. "Complicated?" she asked.

Professor McGonagall fixed her with a stern look. "I appreciate your curiosity, Miss Granger, but Professor Snape's private life is _private."_

"Sorry, Professor," Hermione apologised.

"That's quite alright. I trust that you know not to go spreading rumours about such things?"

"Of course."

"Good. I'll speak to Professor Snape about what you've told me - " Hermione jolted in her seat, eyes widening, " - I'll not mention you by name, Miss Granger, just that a student has raised some concerns. He will undoubtedly assume that a Gryffindor has complained to me."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Professor." She nearly got up to leave before realising that her question had gone only half-answered. "But, if Professor Snape hates Harry because of whatever went on with his parents, why get him permission to try out for quidditch?"

To Hermione's utter shock, Professor McGonagall actually laughed at the question. "Because Slytherin has not won the Quidditch Cup in a decade, and Professor Snape has no interest in having this be the fifth year running that Slytherin loses to Gryffindor. He may not like Mr Potter, but he would have to be blind to not see that the boy is a generational talent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter kind of turned into a monster, hopefully that'll make up for disappearing to write kpop fanfiction for months. next update will be whenever my executive dysfunction lets me write more.
> 
> snape's dialogue in the first potions class is lifted mostly verbatim from philosopher's stone because it's good dialogue and transphobes don't get intellectual property rights
> 
> the bits about muggle school are accurate to my late-2000s experience of British primary schools, not necessarily the early '90s
> 
> my love of sentient crockery can be blamed on watching too many disney movies as a child. i'd have made a beauty and the beast reference but it would be anachronistic
> 
> i have a twitter!! i haven't used it in a while but I'll try to be more active so follow me pls [@aartemesiaa](https://twitter.com/aartemesiaa)
> 
> also [@K1mHeechu1](https://twitter.com/K1mHeechu1) on Twitter you're an angel thank you for dm-ing me to show me how links works

**Author's Note:**

> comments and feedback are always appreciated :D


End file.
